Gay Cowboys Never Get The Blues

In my junior year of high school, I hosted a senior citizen’s dance. It was for school credit and counted toward community service hours. Every Wednesday, I’d gather up with my fellow teenyboppers and come up with exciting ways to entertain the geriatrics crowd. We came up with a 50’s theme dance.

In a church hall, a bevy of old people gathered. We dressed in our most spiffy 1950’s attire. Being a certified wallflower, I didn’t want to dance. Instead, I volunteered to myself as the master of ceremony. I watched the young at heart strut their stuff to the sounds of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper & the Platters. Nothing wooed the crowd more than the sounds of country music. Albeit, the old people got tired of swinging each other and wanted a little line dancing.

Somehow, I was talked into joining in the Yee-haw fun. At that moment, my Madonna/Brit pop/80’s new wave heartbeat did a two-step to the sounds of country music. I smiled and really enjoyed myself. The music stopped and I didn’t listen to country music for over a decade.

Years later, I re-visited line dancing. While attending Judy’s birthday party at a country themed restaurant on Long Island, I was once again reunited with the sounds of states far from my New York bubble. Judy wanted to line dance and insisted I join her on the ride.

I kept tripping over my feet, as I swayed to the sounds of Martina McBride & Shania Twain. Like my sixteen-year-old self, I refused to show that I was enjoying all the dancing. Unlike years before, I had an excuse to enjoy all the most foreign style of dancing.

There in the midst of the two stepping arrived cowboys. They were Long Island cowboys. So, I decided to line dance a little better, just in case one of the fellows was gay. I also realized how handsome a guy could look in a most delightful cowboy hat. After my country infused weekend on Long Island, I returned to the city. Little did I know cowboy boots and a whole lotta Yee-haw followed me into the pop & hip-hop infused canyons of Midtown.

After a fancy event at a rooftop in Hells Kitchen, my gal pals decided to take me to a country music gay bar, the Flaming Saddles. Like any gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen, there were a bevy of perfectly manicured gay men. However, missing were the dance tracks often heard in the gay meccas. Country music filled the dodgy walls of the gay watering hole. Nothing could prepare me for what happened next.

As I finished the last drop of Jameson, the gay cowboys started dancing on the bar. The crowds hooted and howled as the sexy bartenders did one amazing and perfectly choreographed two-step. It hit me. “This never happened at the senior citizen dance I helped organize.” I am sure if it did happen, there would’ve been more grandpas questioning their sexual orientation.



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